


Stuck On You

by Lulzy (likelolwhat)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Retail, Falling In Love, First Dates, Idiots in Love, M/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 02:43:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15654108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likelolwhat/pseuds/Lulzy
Summary: It started with a pair of Vael pants, three sizes too small.





	Stuck On You

**Author's Note:**

> From [this prompt](http://dapromptexchange.tumblr.com/post/173179666866/hawke-gets-stuck-trying-to-take-off-a-pair-of) on the DA Prompt Exchange: _Hawke gets stuck trying to take off a pair of pants in the dressing room of the high class men's store that Fenris works in. He knew they were too tight and Carver's still probably chatting up that chick at the juice stand. What is he to do?_

Fenris is in the back, as usual, sorting through the inventory some child pulled to the floor an hour previous, and quietly fuming that Dorian did not bother offering to help. Not that he would have accepted such an offer. One, Dorian is on register for a reason. Two, his other coworker is too preoccupied watching the pretty saleslady bustle about the jewelry shop across the mall to pay attention to the customers or the merchandise, though he was specifically hired to deter shoplifters. Three, Fenris does not like Dorian.

One of the shirts, a deceptively simple de Fer design for the autumn, has a stain on it, and Fenris’ headache intensifies. Mr. Cousland will not be happy. He sets the shirt aside with a sigh and walks back into the store proper, intent on putting out whatever metaphorical or literal fire has started while he was gone. For all of Dorian’s confidence and retail savvy, he’s remarkably naive sometimes.

Oghren’s pressed up against the front window, breath fogging the glass. The saleslady is hawking her selection of earrings to some hipster in a ponytail and half-moon sunglasses, whose outfit — are those _feathers?_ — gives him a headache just by looking at it.

And Dorian is, for once, not presiding over a disaster in the making. He’s flirting terribly with a customer, no surprise, but the customer is more amused than irritated, laughing under his beard. The younger man with him, perhaps his brother (though Fenris would not put it past Dorian to flirt with a guy who was taken), is irritated, however, and soon stalks away, first to the other side of the store, then, gagging, outside it entirely.

The customer, despite Dorian’s efforts, is more interested in the fabric goods, and eventually chooses a few pairs of Vael pants. He disappears into the dressing room and Fenris thinks nothing more of him.

“Have you no shame?” he snaps at Dorian, more out of habit than genuine irritation. If he doesn’t, Dorian will notice and needle him endlessly.

“Not when it comes to sales tactics, dear Fenris.” He’s made this argument before. “With your attitude and…” he gestures vaguely towards the moping going on at the front window, “…I am the only one around here actually selling anything.”

“And how exactly are you going to sell pants that are three sizes too small?” He doesn’t wait for Dorian’s response, waving away whatever protests the other man might think up, and returns to the stockroom. It’s just the one damaged shirt, but it’s enough that he debates how he’s going to explain it to Mr. Cousland. The luckiest outcome: children are banned from the store.

He wouldn’t mind that.

Half an hour later he returns to the front to put back the other merchandise. The store is empty again. Dorian ignores him, reading a magazine behind the counter. Oghren has disappeared, probably on break, and across the way the saleslady is talking to her coworker while they clean the display cases. It is quiet in the mall, only a few people bustling by every so often on their way to other stores. His break is soon, and then after he will have to fill in on the register while Dorian takes his. He hates the register.

One of the mannequins is crooked. Fenris curses Dorian and climbs up into the window display to gently nudge it back into place. At the juice stand down the way, the petite, tattooed woman who runs it giggles at something her customer is saying. It’s the younger man who left before, leaning against the counter. The other one is nowhere to be found.

Strange.

“Dorian,” he says, exiting the display. “That man, the one with the beard. Did he buy those pants?”

He barely looks up from his magazine. “No. He hasn’t left the dressing room.”

Fenris could strangle him. This is how things get stolen, or damaged. The guy could be having a heart attack in there and Dorian hasn’t bothered to check on him? He stomps past the counter, ignoring the eye-roll the other man shoots his way, and knocks on the dressing room door. “Everything all right in there?”

There’s a barely-audible gasp from within, then a noise like a body bumping into a wall. “F-fine! Everything is fine! No need to— ah!” His panicked breaths echo in the small space.

“Open the door.”

“No! No, its fine. I’ve got it under control!”

“ _Open the door_ , sir, or I will open it for you.” Fenris waits, hands on hips, as the man lets out what sounds suspiciously like a sob. But there’s the shuffling of feet on carpet, and the lock clicks. The door slowly swings open.

The man is tomato-juice red beneath his beard, trembling with the strain of the incredibly tight navy blue dress pants he is wearing. Three sizes too small wasn’t far off — the things are probably damaging his internal organs right that second, not to mention external ones.

Fenris curses Dorian in his head. “How did you even get them on?”

“Just… _help_ me.”

“Ugh. Lie down.”

He practically collapses, and Fenris is glad that Vaels are built so sturdy or they would have been ruined right then and there. The man’s chest heaves as he blinks up at the ceiling, hands hovering over his belly where the zipper is up — how? — but the buttons are, mercifully, undone.

Fenris drops to one knee, thinking how best to preserve their dignities and the pants. Of course Dorian had to hand him one of the the most expensive items in the entire store. “Hold in your gut,” he instructs.

“What… do you think I’m doing?”

“No, hold it. With your hands. As far up as possible. When I say go, suck in as long as you can, got it?”

“Can I at least get your name before you take my pants off?” he jokes weakly, trying to look at Fenris before giving up and letting his head thump to the floor.

“What?”

“Hi, I’m Garrett.”

Maker, the man is delirious. Internal bleeding? Is his breathing compromised? “…just hold in your gut, sir.”

Another, despairing sob, but Garrett does so, maneuvering his soft belly up and holding it out of the way. With a deep, steadying breath, Fenris slips his fingers into the pants, holding the zipper as far away from Garrett’s groin as possible, and carefully unzips it, inch by inch. Where Garrett’s underwear has slipped down, his skin is bright red, irritated.

Garrett gasps and nearly lets go, but ends up just shifting his gut higher, giving Fenris better access to open the fly and alleviate the pressure on his abdomen. There the delicate skin is broken in some places, rubbed raw and oozing. Fenris can imagine a doctor getting a laugh out of this.

“Almost there,” he murmurs. “You might want to hold onto your briefs.”

“ _Oh_.”

“Ready?” A shaky nod. “Go.”

Garrett sucks in a breath and holds it, abdomen going almost, but not quite, flat. Fenris eases the pants down. They go easily once over Garrett’s hips, Fenris following them to keep them from bunching. When they’re off at last, Fenris lets Garrett catch his breath and his dignity, pointedly fussing over the wrinkled but otherwise unharmed garment.

“What a mess,” Garrett mumbles. “Please tell me I won’t have to pay for those.”

Fenris hums, examining the zipper for damage. “A little steam and they’ll be fine.”

“Thank goodness!” He bursts out a relieved laugh that turns hysterical, clapping his hands over his face. “Carver would kill me if we had to—” He cuts off, peeking through his fingers at Fenris.

He imagines his confusion is showing.

“Nevermind. I think I’ll go before I get stuck in anything else you have to help me out of… not that I’d mind... but I don’t think I’d be lucky twice. Oh, fuck.” His blush spreads down, down to disappear under the collar of his shirt. Which, now that Fenris looks closer, has the subtle mark of a second stitch. Someone talented, but not enough to fool Fenris’ scrutinizing eye. It’s been mended, multiple times, but the shirt itself is only middle grade, with the cut but not the fabric of a high end piece. A good knockoff, but a knockoff nonetheless.

Fenris says nothing — it’s none of his business, and this is not the first time someone has tried on items beyond their means. Besides, even with his meticulous saving he wouldn’t be able to afford most of the things in the store himself.

“Oh, fuck,” Garrett repeats. “You must think me insane.” He hauls himself to his feet and snatches up his own pants, pulling them on and shoving into his shoes in short, jerky movements while Fenris blinks at him. “I’m really sorry.”

Fenris stands, gathering up the other, forgotten pairs Dorian had pulled from the shelves and folding them all neatly. Somehow it’s more awkward now than it was before, and he’s still not sure what to say. Eventually he settles on a weak, “That’s all right,” and curses himself the moment the words come out of his mouth. “No harm done.” Better.

“Well. If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not impose on you or the store any longer.”

Fenris steps aside, letting Garrett pass him. When he returns to the front, Garrett has stopped by the register. “Have you seen my brother?” he asks, craning his neck to look around the store.

“Afraid I haven’t,” Dorian purrs, stroking his mustache.

“He was at the juice stand last I saw him.”

Garrett flinches at Fenris’ voice behind him. “The— the juice stand?” He shakes his head, sighing. “Should’ve known Carver was mooning after another girl. Thanks.”

And with that he is gone, power-walking out the door. Dorian taps his chin thoughtfully. “Strange fellow,” he comments.

Fenris dumps the pile of too-small pants on the register in front of him and walks away, ignoring the sputtering that follows in his wake.

Dorian is right (for once), but that doesn’t mean Fenris is going to admit it. At least the incident’s over, and the funny feeling in his gut can subside now. Right? He can put whatever that was behind him, and Mr. Cousland need never know.

As he stalks toward the back — on the pretense of more stocking and sorting, but he’s not too proud to admit he needs time alone right now — a glint in the corner of his eye makes him pause. It’s coming from the dressing room, and when he gets closer its to find a little silver pendant on a silver chain on the floor. It’s shaped like a rose, the petals painted a dusky pink, and though Fenris can’t quite picture it on a man like Garrett, it must be his. He turns it over. On the reverse, the word HAWKE is engraved in a fancy script. Hawke? Garrett Hawke?

The name sounds right the moment he thinks it, settling into his head like it belongs there.

~*~

A week passes and Garrett does not return for the pendant. Fenris starts to doubt it was his to begin with, but no one else comes for it either, so on the eighth day when he leaves the store he takes it with him. He’s not sure what he’s going to do with it. Dorian had glanced over and declared it “costume jewelry not worth the paint”, so he doubts anyone is going to pay for it. If he trusts anything about Dorian, it would be his eye for that kind of thing.

It winds up in a little bowl on his dresser.

The days are growing shorter, and it’s dim twilight by the time he gets off work. Fenris would like to go home and sleep, but his cupboards are almost empty again. He wraps his scarf tighter to ward against the chill creeping into his bones. He supposes he should be glad he isn’t even further south, where it has already snowed.

Hands tucked into his pockets, he trudges to the grocery. It’s locally owned, sure to be gone by next year when the big box store opens. He’ll be glad for lower prices, if they do come, but the walk will be longer. He should probably get a car. He shouldn’t have put it off so long, but he hadn’t thought he’d be here for more than a few months, and hadn’t expected Mr. Cousland to hire him so fast.

He’ll be able to get a better place soon.

Thinking about what’s actually in his price range quickly leads to daydreaming about the huge Hightown mansions not far from his work. He’s imagining a whole wine cellar to himself as he purchases his items and approaches the exit doors, which abruptly open. Fenris runs right into — and bounces off of — the man entering. His groceries scatter.

It is, of all people, Garrett.

“Oh, sorry— Oh. Hi.” He looks very different, in faded jeans and a bright red sweater. His sneakers are worn, one set of laces black and the other white. But it is undeniably Garrett, blushing bright as he helps Fenris corral his cans of soup. He continues to blush, not looking Fenris in the eye, even as he hands back the bags.

Fenris could leave it at that, let Garrett go on his way. But when has he ever not kicked the hornet’s nest?

“Hey, are you okay?” He catches Garrett’s arm as he tries to inch around Fenris. From the look on the other man’s face he’s surprised by Fenris’ strength, and he loosens his grip a little.

“Fine! Fine.” The blush intensifies, all the way up to Garrett’s ears. “Just wasn’t expecting… never mind.”

Fenris blinks. “Wasn’t expecting what?”

Garrett yanks his arm away, and Fenris lets go. But the other man doesn’t leave, just runs his hand through his hair. He mumbles something, clears his throat, then says roughly, if quietly, “I didn’t think someone like you would shop here.”

Fenris opens his mouth, closes it. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t that. He isn’t sure whether to be offended or proud of himself. “You thought— what? That I lived and worked in Hightown? That I could actually afford to buy anything in the store?”

Garrett nods miserably. “It was stupid. I’m sorry.”

“I suppose it’s good to know that I look rich even if I’m not,” Fenris muses. Then, because Garrett looks ready to bolt and he may not get this opportunity again, even if they do shop at the same grocery, “Hey. You wouldn’t happen to have lost a necklace, would you? Rose shaped?”

It apparently takes a moment for Garrett’s mind to make the jump in topic, but once he does he tenses. “Yes, yes I did. Where—”

“At the store. No one came to get it so I took it home… Are you okay?”

Garrett’s eyes mist, and he covers his mouth with one hand, swallowing hard. “That was my sister’s.”

At that moment Fenris makes a decision, because Garrett is becoming distraught and there is _something_ … “Come on, then. I don’t live far. Or were you going to get something?”

“No. Just dropping off a resume. Such as it is.” He pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolds it. Less than half the page is typed on.

Fenris nods, waiting while Garrett goes to find the manager. It doesn’t take long, and Garrett is smiling, if jittery, when he returns. “Lead the way, uh… You know, I never did get your name.”

He quirks a tiny smile. “Fenris.”

Garrett grins in turn, sketching a bow. “Garrett Hawke, serrah.”

~*~

Garrett is still jittery when they reach Fenris’ apartment. Fenris is, to his surprise, not anxious in the least, even though he’s leading a man who may as well be a stranger into his home. It’s not that he’s some romantic idiot who believes he knows everything there is to know about Garrett, but he does know the location of every weapon in his place and how fast he can get to the closest one. Besides, its not as if he’s about to lose track of the other man. He exudes presence, even if he didn’t step so loudly.

“Excuse the mess,” he says, ushering Garrett inside.

“What m— oh.” Garrett stops short, eyes going straight to the corner of the main room, to the bloody handprint Fenris really should paint over one of these days. At the very least, before he moves someplace without so much history.

Fenris dumps his groceries at the kitchenette and walks past him, ducking into the bedroom — neat, tidy, entirely free of bloodstains that he knows of. The pendant is right where he left it. “The previous tenants were not happy when they were kicked out,” he says, because unless Garrett has suddenly learned the meaning of stealth he hasn’t moved. Is that a good sign or a bad one?

“I… see,” Garrett says, voice wavering. “And you haven’t…?”

“It adds character.” Which may very well be true. The more important reason is that he doesn’t want to get a gallon of paint just to cover up something he can’t see from the couch anyway, and that doesn’t bother him. When was the last time he had a guest over?

When Fenris steps back into the room, Garrett is still staring at the handprint, looking vaguely green around the edges. He clears his throat, holding out the pendant.

Those eyes flick to him, then, slowly, down to his outstretched hand, and catch there. Garrett goes still, all but his face, which is suddenly so raw and vulnerable that Fenris feels like he’s watching a man fall apart.

Neither of them move. Fenris keeps his expression blank, which isn’t hard, but Garrett does not have his experience, it seems.

Finally, Garrett swallows, raises a shaky hand to take the pendant. He turns it over, running his thumb over the rose and blinking hard.

“What was her name?” His voice is softer than he’s used to, and it would echo if the walls weren’t already shaking from the reverb three doors down. He can’t tell what the song is, as he feels the music rather than hearing it.

Garrett clenches his fist and brings it to his heart, the chain dangling. His knuckles are white. “Bethany.”

Fenris nods, not expecting anything more than that choked answer, but then Garrett looks up, away, gaze landing somewhere in the vicinity of the bloodstain again, though it’s focused on something Fenris cannot see, and never will. Fenris waits, because he knows what that look may mean. Or Garrett could turn around and walk back out of his home again. He wonders when he started to care.

He wonders, too, when he started thinking of this rathole apartment as his home.

“She died last year. Everyone blames me ‘cause I got sick first and passed it to her, but I recovered and she didn’t. Carver doesn’t say as much, but that doesn’t mean I can’t tell. And Mom has said several times that it’s all my fault.”

“Your mother blames you?” Fenris doesn’t remember his own mother, has no experience with the concept. He is poorly equipped for this, he realizes.

Garrett nods jerkily, still far away. “Then we lost the house and… Mom was sure her relatives here would welcome us with open arms and a pile of cash, but turns out when you run away at sixteen with—” he sneers as he bites out someone else’s words, “— _some mongrel_ , you can’t always depend on coming back to find everything the same as when you left. I never knew she used to be rich, but now that Dad and Bethy are gone, the good life is all she can think about.” He sighs, opening his hand to look at the pendant again. “I can’t even blame her. It would be nice to be rich. But before that, we need to be stable. Carv and I are looking for jobs, but it’s hard to find anything in this city that isn’t life-threatening in one way or another.”

“Street gangs are not conducive to stability, yes?” Fenris quips.

Garrett’s brows furrow, and Fenris bites the inside of his cheek. He’s been picking up bad habits from Dorian. Next he’ll be flirting with strangers and checking his pocketwatch while reading Vogue. He barely suppresses a shudder.

“…Sorry,” Garrett says after a pause. “I just unloaded all my baggage at once, didn’t I? Well, not all of it, I didn’t tell you about the— Nevermind. Sorry. Again.”

“You don’t need to apologize.” He’s still focused on the possibility of becoming another _Dorian_ , and thus it comes out far more aggressive than he means.

Garrett grins nervously, fidgeting with the pendant. “Uh. Right. Thank you. I’m s— I won’t impose on you any longer. Thanks.” He backs away, nodding to himself, and is almost to the door before Fenris can call out.

“Shit. Wait. I didn’t mean…”

Garrett pauses, palm resting on the handle behind him. He turns it, experimentally, before letting it go. Fenris can’t blame him.

“I might be able to help you,” he offers, though he’s probably about to be soundly rejected. He hasn’t been very sociable since… ever, and if his accidental aggression comes back to bite him again he has only himself to blame, as usual.

But Garrett doesn’t flip him off and run, or back away again, or any number of imagined scenarios. He just blinks, tilting his head, and waits. Still, he could pull off a mad dash back or a lunge forward at a moments notice, Fenris realizes. _Play it cool_.

“There’ll be a position open at the store soon,” he reveals. He shouldn’t be saying anything, but then Mr. Cousland shouldn’t vent to his wife with the office door open. “Within the next two weeks, I think. If you’re the first application in, you’ve got a much better chance.”

“You’re… leaving?”

Fenris replays his words and sees where he went wrong. It’s always after the fact. “No. Oghren is going to be fired. He’s been showing up hungover. The only reason he wasn’t fired immediately the first time is that he’s an old friend of the boss’ wife, and she pleaded for mercy until the baby came.”

Garrett looks horrified by this. “I’m going to be taking the job of a guy who just had a kid?”

Fenris shrugs, unsure how to mollify him. “It’s work? It’s going to happen regardless, Mr. Cousland is rarely as merciful as he was even by delaying it. I can ask around for other jobs, too. I think Isabela has an opening for a bouncer….”

Isabela, though… He can imagine her flirting with Garrett, perhaps less subtly even than Dorian (and now that he thinks about it, Garrett didn’t seem at all interested then, maybe he doesn’t like men?), and the image of beautiful, buxom Isabela seducing him leaves a bad taste in Fenris’ mouth that he can’t identify. He likes Isabela, was one of her ‘lovelies’ as she liked to call her bed partners, even, and she never gives the illusion that her flings are anything but no strings attached. If Garrett falls for her charms, that’s his business, but— oh.

Oh. He’s jealous.

“Fenris?” Garrett says, blinking, utterly oblivious to the other man’s epiphany. “Fenris? You okay? You’ve kinda… frozen, there.”

“Fine,” Fenris croaks out. He clears his throat, refocuses. “Apologies.”

“Oh, Carv would be a great bouncer.” Garrett tucks the pendant into his shirt-pocket. “I dunno how he managed to be taller than me, but… Do you think you could direct him to this Isabela?”

The cold relief that floods him at those words is surprising. He’s in too deep already. Didn’t he guard his heart well enough? At least Garrett doesn’t seem to have caught on yet. “Certainly. Siren’s Call isn’t the trendiest bar in the city but Isabela is fair and discrete. Don’t fall for her stories, though. She’ll have you believing that not only was she a pirate in a past life, but that she remembers it.”

Garrett chuckles. “Sounds like she’ll have Carver eating out of her hand within minutes.”

“Probably. She’s a good soul, though. Don’t tell anyone I said that, she has a reputation to keep.” Isabela plays the rogue but she’s honest where it really counts. Not often, because it doesn’t matter that much where she blew in from or her exact bust size, which seem to be the most common questions she gets. Just where it counts.

Garrett cracks up at that, a full-on belly laugh that, for a moment, drowns out the reverb from three doors down and sets something aflutter in Fenris’ heart. It’s a good laugh, an unburdened laugh, and he wants, absurdly, to hear it again.

_Stop that_ , he snaps at himself. _Remember what happened the last time you felt this way?_

But Garrett isn’t— he has nothing to gain from this, he knows. It’s an awful lot of trouble to go through to use someone, and didn’t Isabela tell him he’d know when it was time? She didn’t say he’d immediately second-guess himself, though.

Garrett’s cheeks turn an adorable rosy red and his eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs. “I won’t say a word,” he says. A little breathless, and oh, that’s good too. “Would you— ah. Could we meet for coffee somewhere tomorrow? I was supposed to be home half an hour ago but I’d like to take you up on that offer. If you’re still willing.”

“Did you want to invite your brother?”

Garrett makes a face. “Uh. Nah, if it’s okay I can just relay the details to him. He’s pretty abrasive and…” He mumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like ‘distracting’. He takes a deep breath, flexes his hands at his sides. “And I wanted to get to know you better.”

Fenris valiantly wills his own blush down, though some part of him is unsure why he bothers when Garrett is, well, Garrett. Old habits, probably. “I… am not adverse to the idea.” Garrett droops a bit at his lack of enthusiasm, and he continues hurriedly, “Eight tomorrow? There’s a little hole in the wall down the street that has good coffee for cheap.”

Garrett nods, gratitude and hope in his eyes.

~*~

The Bee’s Knees is about as large as a closet, with barely room for a tiny table and two chairs wedged up against the counter. The remainder of the space is taken up by the aforementioned counter, the coffee machines, and a trash can. Fenris doubts it is up to fire code standards but either way he suspects the place won’t be getting a visit anytime soon, what with how easily overlooked it is from the outside — and the owner’s extensive underground network of quasi-criminals.

It could be a gang headquarters. The coffee is cheap.

He could do without Sera’s decorating tastes, though. Every available surface is either plastered with bee stickers or — in the case of the board behind the counter — drawings of what could, plausibly, have been bees. The trash can is even painted to look like an inverted bee, the lid shaped like a stinger.

The outside is just a door with a handwritten sign. _Easily_ overlooked, so Fenris stands outside, wrapping his scarf extra tight and holding his mitten-clad hands up to his face to conserve heat. Maker, why didn’t he settle somewhere warmer?

Fenris is just starting to worry about his ability to give directions when Garrett appears from around the corner, bounding quickly for a man of his size, face splitting into an easy grin as soon as his eyes alight on him. “Hey!” he calls, breathless again, and Fenris clenches his stomach in a vain attempt to stop the flip. Is he blushing? Maker, he better not be blushing. “Mother kept me longer than I thought. Sorry.”

He waves away the apology, quirking a smile back. It feels strange, pulling muscles he hasn’t used in a long time. Entering the shop, hyper-aware of Garrett’s presence at his back, he orders his black coffee in even more clipped tones than usual. The barista doesn’t seem to notice. Fenris wonders if she notices anything beyond Sera, perched on the counter with her back to the door. She’s scribbling something in a notebook, tongue between her teeth, and doesn’t acknowledge them.

The barista — Dagna — passes Fenris his coffee and he retreats to the table. The drink may be hot but its far too cold to be outside until he must be. He squeezes into a chair while Garrett orders his vanilla latte, leaving the spot with slightly more room for his date’s — his date! — larger frame.

“Oy, you with Fenny?” Sera says suddenly, and Fenris looks up to find her peering at Garrett, tapping her pencil against her chin. She has a maniacal gleam in her eye that sets his nerves on edge.

Garrett blinks at her for several seconds. “Uh, who?”

“Fenny. Fenny-wenny?” Sera elaborates impatiently, but understanding is already dawning in Garrett’s eyes. He glances at Fenris, who raises an eyebrow but otherwise keeps his expression blank. It’s kind of endearing how Garrett wants to check, but he’s also interested in how the other man will describe their relationship, such as it is.

“Um. Yes.” He’s blushing, wrapping his hands around his coffee when Dagna passes it over and holding onto it as if for strength. _Bracing for an interrogation_.

He doesn’t get one. Sera nods thoughtfully. “A’ight. Guess you must be decent for _him_ to notice. Stay that way, yeah?” She flashes a toothy grin at them before slipping off the counter and waltzing into the back room. Fenris has no idea what’s in there; supplies, probably, but that seems far too mundane for the Bee’s Knees.

Dagna cleans the espresso machine and hurries after Sera, leaving them alone.

“That was weird, right?” Garrett says, finally joining Fenris. “I mean— it wasn’t just me?”

“No, that was indeed strange. I don’t think I ever told Sera my name, at least not directly.” He’s never made much conversation with the woman. She gives him a headache, and isn’t around half the time anyway.

Garrett squints at him. “It was almost like a shovel talk.”

It takes a moment for him to process that, and then he feels a headache creeping in behind his eyes and gives up thinking about it. “I don’t need protecting.”

“Certainly not,” Garrett agrees, taking a sip of latte, but Fenris still catches the smile. It… doesn’t anger him, as it would on anyone else in similar context. He knows Garrett isn’t mocking him or doubting him with that smile.

~*~

They talk a long time, about everything and nothing. Though Fenris has to deflect a question about his past, Garrett takes the hint in stride and returns to safer topics with only a flicker of disappointment.

Fenris feels… guilty? Disappointed himself? It’s almost like he wanted Garrett to push, except that can’t be true because that is ground he’s never tread with anyone. He’s never been a self-reflective man. Confronted with these… feelings, he doesn’t even know what they _are_. Right?

He just knows that Garrett is upending him, and it is both frightening and exhilarating. Should he take the leap? Does he dare?

Well. They finished the business side of things some time ago and he’s still here, so maybe he already has.

There’s no reason anymore to fight the smile when it steals up on him, and Garrett’s breath leaves him in a great _whoosh_ when he notices. Then they’re grinning at each other like lovesick fools, and Fenris doesn’t care.

Garrett can’t seem to decide whether Fenris’ eyes or mouth are more interesting to look at. He swipes his tongue over his lips, and the tips of the other man’s ears turn a fascinatingly tomato-like shade. He rather likes it; it’s been a long time, and… actually, never has someone been so obviously enamored with _him_.

They both stand at the same time, and their empty coffee cups nearly tumble off the table as it wobbles dangerously. Garrett snatches both in one big hand and drops them in the bee-shaped trash can (the stinger waggles back and forth as if admonishing them; _Fenris does not care_ ) without taking his eyes off Fenris’ face, and oh, those eyes say what the mouth cannot: _I, too, don’t know how to do this but I am willing to learn to be close to you_.

Fenris takes a deep breath, heart not only fluttering now but pounding desperately against his chest. He has to stand on tiptoe, but Garrett leans down and—

They bang noses.

Garrett lets out yet another breathy, beautiful laugh, while Fenris scrunches his face until the ache in his nose goes away. A hand, big but so gentle, cups his cheek, and Garrett peers at him. And just that — that this man would want to check that he was okay even after something so small, stops Fenris short.

He smiles, and brings both his hands up to Garrett’s face. The beard is soft beneath his fingers, surprising him, and he only realizes that he’s stroking it when the man begins to giggle at him, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Oh, hush,” Fenris growls, and kisses him.

Properly, this time, and many times after that, because something about kissing Garrett is _right_ after so many wrongs in his life (and eventually, he does tell the whole story). They eventually disentangle, and Fenris continues on to work, where Dorian raises an eyebrow in that infuriating way of his but mercifully, does not comment. Just Fenris’ luck that his happiness is hard to hide. And if Dorian is less annoying than usual, he credits his rose-colored glasses and not any actual change.

~*~

Some time on, he would go down to Siren’s Call to see Isabela and tell her all about it. She would smile, declare it was a crying shame that a man like him was off the market, as she would put it, and pass him a bottle of foreign vintage she had been saving for him. “To old times and new,” she would call out over the bar, raising her glass of swill, and the more cognizant patrons would echo her toast.

Some time on, he would be on his way into work and spy Carver bringing flowers to the girl at the juice stand. The younger Hawke would ask about the swirling designs on her arms and legs and pretty, doe-eyed face, and she would blush and explain their origin in her culture, and the people she missed very much. Carver would nod and talk a little about the home he and Garrett had left, and Fenris would smile because it’s kind of adorable, the way those two carry on.

Some time on, he would finally move out of his apartment, and he and Garrett would find their home in a modest two-bedroom in a quiet neighborhood within biking distance of their work. Garrett would send money to his mother every month without fail, and visit her twice a week like clockwork, until her death in a car accident. Garrett would never be quite the same after that, but where before he had been naive, after he was fully, heartbreakingly aware of how easily the ones you love can be taken from you. Not quite the same, but he would still be Garrett and Fenris could never stop loving him.

They would talk about getting married, but never did. They would talk about adopting a child, a child of their own to raise in love, and eventually they would. A girl, six years old when she came to them, with fiery eyes and a fiery temper, but she was raised in love and grew into a fighter, and what more could they want?


End file.
